


Avant-garde

by wanderinghooves



Category: Naruto
Genre: Art, F/M, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderinghooves/pseuds/wanderinghooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even an artist-nin's talents only goes so far. In which Sai experiences a lapse in creativity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avant-garde

_Not again._

Sai grits his teeth as the harsh sound of tearing parchment fills his ears, and glares down at the array before him. 

Torn leaves of his notebook lay strewn around him like the nest of some strange, artistically-challenged bird, bundles of sketches dashed off haphazardly; here a cluster of too-thick lines, there some not definite enough, and all of them lacking some incalculable element.

He sighs and leans back against the cool cement of the Konoha hospital roof, frowning up at the wispy cirrus clouds he’d come all the way up here to capture.

Sai tosses his most recent shortcoming away from him, intending for it to land amongst the rest, but instead the parchment lilts upwards, caught by an errant gust of wind, and disappears over the edge of the building.

His eyes widen, and suddenly Sai feels panic course through him. He is momentarily perplexed by the unexpected presence of this particular emotion, but then he pushes it from his mind and flips hurriedly to a fresh sheet of parchment.

If there’s one thing he can always produce, it’s his signature jutsu. No particular artistic finesse required there. 

Sai tosses his notebook to the ground a few moments later and a large bird erupts from the page, shaking its inky head. He clambers astride his creation as it departs the roof, squinting for any sign of the rogue page. 

There it is.

Sai spies it, distantly entangled in the upper branches of a large tree, and angles the ink bird towards it.

He is too slow, however, and he curses under his breath as the sheet dislodges from amongst the leaves, caught up in another breeze; he prods his mount fiercely, urging it forward.

He realizes now what is motivating his hunt, and grimaces in spite of himself. 

Sai has never quite understood the concept of pride, but now, as he pursues the wayward page, he becomes distinctly aware of how very adverse he is to the idea of someone else viewing his artistic failings. 

Suddenly the sheet is caught once more; this time blown against a signpost along the village’s central path, and Sai sends his bird into a dive, refusing to be foiled again. 

Thankfully there are few people out at this time of the morning, so he able to dismount and snatch up the incriminating page without incident.

Sai feels a wave of relief wash over him, and returns his steed to its place in his notebook before incinerating the sheet in his palm.

He glances up, gauging his location. He’s in the center of town, a place he typically avoids, and he is in the process of turning to leave when his gaze catches on an item in the opposite storefront. 

The plant is small and delicate, clusters of minute flowers bunched together along a thin stalk. Its pale blooms distinctly remind him of the clouds which had caused him such previous frustration.

Sai wanders across to the small shop, suddenly moved by a pressing need to capture the image. A wall of flowery scents accosts him as he enters, but he is undeterred in his purpose and rummages in his pack for materials. 

He draws out a fresh inkwell, white this time instead of black. The rare color was particularly difficult to come by, but he feels the change is distinctly needed. 

Sai situates himself on the floor beside the plant’s display, brows furrowed as he assesses its form. 

Carefully, he traces its stalk onto his notebook, the line thin and precise. Satisfied, he begins to expertly outline an individual bloom, exactly following the individual dips and curves, before repeating the image several times to create the bundles of flowers adoring the plant. 

“Close, but not quite.”

Sai starts as a voice speaks from behind him and turns to see Yamanaka Ino lounging against the counter on the opposite wall, her gaze on his meticulous work; suddenly he feels like a mouse caught by a very haughty housecat. 

“Hello, Miss Beautiful.”

She ignores his vacant smile and saunters over, eyes narrowing as she alights next to him.

“You’ve got the shape right, but you don’t have the image,” she declares, casually tossing her long hair.

He frowns.

“What do you mean?”

Ino removes the plant from its shelf, delicately setting it before him. 

“ _Hyacinthus orientalis_ ,” she says loftily, her pride in her botanical knowledge not lost on him. “It’s one of the Yamanaka clan’s most prized crops, and in the language of flowers, it signifies high spirits and playfulness.”

He stares at her blankly, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Don’t give me that. Look, what I mean is your painting is way too stiff. If you really want to capture this flower, you need to make your picture livelier, you know?”

Sai glances back down at his creation. 

He hates to admit it, but she’s right. His painting of the hyacinth is just as inaccurate as his failed cloud sketches; too blunt, too calculated. 

Immediately, he feels embarrassment well up in his chest, and he moves to hide his painting when Ino stops his hand. 

“Come on, it’s not bad. It just needs something.”

Her proud voice is almost kind now, and he looks at her in confusion, wary of the unexpected switch. 

Clearly she is aware of the change as well, as she hastily drops her gaze and tugs his notebook away. 

“Here, I’ll show you.”

She turns to a fresh sheet, laying the notebook down beside the plant, and submerges his brush in the white inkwell.

Sai watches curiously as she brings the brush to the parchment, but rather than place it on the sheet, Ino holds the brush above it, giving the fibers a determined shake. 

The ink rains down, splatters falling as a white cluster onto the parchment. She repeats her peculiar technique a few more times until the mass of flecks is suitably dense, and then makes a brisk, sweeping motion, creating a single cohesive stroke. 

He gazes down at the page in disbelief. 

The image of the hyacinth is messy but unmistakable. Ino’s splatters bunch together exactly like the flowers, each unique fleck capturing the petals’ individuality, and the stem is thin but energetic. Her painting is haphazard and imperfect, but it carries such life that he half expects it to sprout out of the parchment.

Sai stares at her, newfound admiration engulfing him.

“It’s fantastic.”

Ino looks away from him and a faint redness colors her cheeks.

“Well, it’s better than yours, you stick in the mud.”

Her sharp wit, at least, is unchanged.

He retrieves his notebook from her and she stands, snatching up the hyacinth. 

“Thank you.”

Ino seems somewhat surprised by his words and makes no reply. 

He straightens up, materials repacked, and moves to exit, but she stops him, holding the flower out. 

“Here.”

He gazes at it, perplexed, and she nudges him.

“Oh, just take it. You let me use your art supplies, so I might as well return the favor.”

This time a genuine smile reaches his mouth, and when she grins back, he’s never seen anything more brilliant.


End file.
